The Other France
by Etruscan Empire and GothFrance
Summary: Introducing Goth!Talia! Night Bonnefoy, the timid, gothic personification of France, is transported one fateful stormy night into the regular Hetalia world... right into England's closet. Meanwhile, France is getting acquainted with Jack Kirkland's whip... Goth!France/UK, France/Goth!UK, onesided Goth!PruFran. Rated T for torture, violence, language, boys kissing. Sucky summary.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. But I do kinda own the design for Goth!Talia, so if you'd like to use it, you have my permission. Just don't pass it off as your own idea if you do, please and danke.**

**Also, Goth!England's original name was Lestat but... due to the site saying we can't use Anne Rice's stuff, I can't use the name. He will be going by his backup name, Jack (but you'll see him referred to as Jackie Boy more often).**

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"Night~ Where are you~? I'm not finished with you yet~"

The raven-haired Frenchman in question shuffled deeper into his closet, pressing bloodstained hands to his mouth in an effor to contain his screams. His shirt was torn in several places, the white fabric stained scarlet from his injuries. Night clasped his hands together and whispered a shaky prayer in his native tongue.

"_Ne le laissez pas me trouver, s'il vous plaît, je serai un bon petit Français et aller à l'église tous les dimanches, s'il vous plaît ne laissez pas me trouver_..."

A quiet boom of thunder echoed into his little sanctuary, followed by the approaching sound of his tormentor's footsteps. Every now and then there was a sharp cracking along the walls-Jack's whip, that devil instrument that haunted his waking nightmare of a life-and the tingling crackle of lightning outside.

Night was suddenly reminded of something his dear friend Iommi had once said-something about other worlds, with other versions of themselves. "_S'il vous plaît, si vous avez de l'amour pour un_ _pauvre_ _Français_," he prayed desperately, "_m'envoyer à l'un de ces autre monde et ramener un fort moi pour faire face à Jack, parce que je vais mourir si je tente d'_!"

A flash of lightning, blacker than the night itself, shot down outside his bedroom window, jolting the poor Frenchman up in abject terror only to have him collide with a low shelf. He slumped to the floor, vision slowly fading black...

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**Very short teaser chapter... prologue... thing. I promise to update regularly!**

**Translations: (Blame google translate for errors.)**

**_Ne le laissez pas me trouver, s'il vous plaît, je serai un bon petit Français et aller à l'église tous les dimanches, s'il vous plaît ne laissez pas me trouver_****... = Do not let him find me, please, I'll be a good little Frenchman and go to church every Sunday, please do not let him find me...**

**_S'il vous plaît, si vous avez de l'amour pour un_****_pauvre_****_Français_****, ****_m'envoyer à l'un de ces autre monde et ramener un fort moi pour faire face à Jack, parce que je vais mourir si je tente d'! _****= Please, if you have love for a poor Frenchman, send me to one of those other worlds and bring a strong me to face Jack, because I will die if I try to!**


	2. Chapter 1: New Britain

**Much longer chapters this time around, I promise.**

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Of all the things that England expected to find in his closet that morning, an unconscious France was not one of them. In fact, if he didn't look so absolutely out of it that the Brit was afraid he'd cause him permanent bodily harm (not that he cared, mind you), the Frenchman would have probably been face-first in the street by now.

Although, he had to be honest, France... didn't really look like his normal Francy self. Physically, he was still the same (save the fact his hair seemed to have changed colors overnight, from golden-blonde to purplish-black), but something in his posture seemed odd, as if he were afraid. No, terrified was a better term. Of what, England had no idea, but it must've been pretty bad to make him seek shelter in _England's_ closet, of all places. It looked as if the Frog was wearing some of his clothing as well, a white spider-silk dress shirt, and messed it up rather badly.

"Bloody hell, what have you done to my shirt, you git?!"

France's eyes snapped open instantly and he cowered at England's feet, peeling the red-stained shirt off of his body. "I'm so sorry, sir, I-I'll fix it for you right away, please don't 'urt me!"

England blinked. The alabaster-pale man at his feet couldn't possibly be France. The begging was normal, of course, but not even on the rare occasions when he was drunk out of his mind had France ever called the Brit "sir."

"Alright, who are you and what are you doing in my closet?"

The little Frenchman paused and seemed to actually notice England for the first time. Midnight-blue eyes widened in disbelief. "Y-you are not Jack." He let out a nervous giggle, smiling wider and wider. "You are not Jack!"

"No, who's-"

England was tackled to the ground, the strange Frenchman hugging him tightly. "You must be an angel sent from 'Eaven to protect me! Oh, monsieur, you are a saint!"

Pushing him off as gently as possible, the Brit looked down at his now crimson-smeared shirt and back up to the Frenchman. His eyes widened as a fresh scarlet stain bled across the other's side. The Frenchman didn't seem to notice, staring straight into England's bottle-green eyes.

_Can't this idiot notice he's bleeding?_ England thought as those serious midnight eyes continued to search his soul. _Well if he won't do anything about it, I might as well_. Sighing, the Brit stood and pulled his houseguest to his feet, wordlessly dragging the other into an adjoining bathroom. As he pulled the other's shirt the rest of the way off, England just barely kept himself from whispering a quick "saints preserve us" at the sight.

The Frenchman's chest was a mangled mess of slashes, bruises, and smeared blood. Small sections of flesh dangled from his body as if someone had been trying to flay him alive and not doing a very good job of it. England turned him around, and his back was much the same. But there, right across his prominent shoulder-blades; the words "NEW BRITAIN" carved out in whip marks. England found, to his surprise, that he seemed to have bypassed concerned and gone straight to homicidal.

All throughout his examination, the pale Frenchman was timidly silent, as if ashamed of his tattered body. Yet he remained still as England reached into the sink and brought out a wash-cloth, beginning to clear the blood away.

"... What's your name?"

The island Nation looked up from cleaning the wounds on his guest's back. "What?"

"You are not Jack, zhat much is obvious," the other said. "So what is your name?"

"Arthur Kirkland. And yours?"

The Frenchman smiled. It was a rather innocent smile, something the Brit was more used to seeing on the face of a certain Italian. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Arzhur. _Je m'apelle _Night Bonnefoy."

So he was France after all-if just a different version of him. "Where are you from, Night?"

Night winced as England pressed the cloth against one of the more recent injuries, a large gash cut deep into his ribs. "I-it is 'ard to describe. Zhe sun is pale, if it ever shows from be'ind zhe clouds, and zhe moon is zhis color red," here he pointed to one of the burgrundy scars criss-crossing his arms. "Zhe plants are all brown and dry, even zhough it always looks like it's about to rain." The little Frenchman's voice lost all traces of life. "Zhe world is a warzone. Jack owns all of Europe and Africa. Zhe only ones capable of standing up to 'im are Aleksei and Ichabod, but zhey are so busy fighting each ozher-" Night let out a whimpering shudder as England's hand passed over the phrase carved into his skin. "P-please be gentle, Arzhur."

"Right, sorry." England quickly moved away from the detestable words. "You're going to need stitches in these, ah..."

"Flay marks." Night sighed and looked at the Brit helplessly. "C-could you do it? Iommi and Gil are usually zhe ones 'oo patch me up, but..." he trailed off into a shrug.

England hesitated. "I've never had to do stitches, mate. It'll hurt."

"I'm used to it."

The Brit would have bet Flying Mint Bunny's wings he was. "Right..." With the greatest reluctance, England pulled a medical needle and thread out of the cupboard and set to work. He tried to be as gentle as possible, but every twitch and near-silent squeak from the little Frenchman made England's heart twinge in sympathy. _The poor fellow. If this is what he goes through at the hands of his friends..._ that thought was just too disturbing to continue.

In said thought's wake, questions formed. How had Night gotten here? What kind of sociopathical monster had left him in such a state? What alternate universe held such a dystopian world as he'd described?

Most importantly... where was the normal France?

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**Poor Night-kun... My sadistic mind is so cruel to you... Anyways!**

**Translations: (Still google translate.)**

**monsieur = sir or mister**

**je m'apelle... = my name is...**


	3. Chapter 2: Master

**So much love already! :D You people are amazing, just... amazing. Really and truly. I love all of you! *sobs* So, so much! Thank you for sticking with it as long as you have! (Even though it's only been two chapters.)**

**Just as a warning, I'm a scary sadistic writer. Very scary. This whole chapter-and anything to do with Jack, really-is what gives this story it's T rating.**

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France was currently experiencing a very different wake-up call than his gothic counterpart. Really, it hadn't been that long ago that he'd snuck into Britain's closet to pester the man (and maybe other things) when he woke up; surely a thunderstorm couldn't have started up in that amount of time. It was a rather strong one, too, by the sound of it. Frequent cracks of lightning sounded throughout the cramped space as if they were right outside the door, followed by... laughter?

_Hang on... thunderstorms don't laugh. _The blond Frenchman thought to himself. _And they definitely don't laugh like certain little Brits._

Another crack that was most definitely _not_ lightning resounded through the walls, making France jump up and squeak in surprise. The world seemed to go silent, until a quiet creak announced that someone was opening the door. Dim light fell on the Frenchman, silhouetting his familiar little Englishman in the doorway.

Well... perhaps he wasn't so little.

England seemed to have grown three feet in the span of twenty minutes; France thought that he might have an entire head and shoulders over Russia. Even though the backlighting obscured the Brit's features, his eyes were practically glowing, an unusual shade of veridian green. A barely visible, wide grin stretched across his face as those glowing eyes fell on the Frenchman.

"Finally! You've made me very upset, luv; running off like you did." Suddenly, the Brit's eyes narrowed as he looked at France a little closer. "What on earth have you done to your beautiful hair?"

France couldn't resist. "So, you admit my 'air is beautiful, chéri-" A sharp, frigid slap across his cheek shut the Frenchman's mouth. He looked up at England in shock, a red handprint forming on his left cheek.

The Brit's eyes burned with fury. "What have I told you about speaking to me in that twice-cursed gibberish, Night?"

_Night? Who the hell is he?_ "I-I- My name is not-" Another slap, this one slightly gentler.

"Ah... So you _are_ a different one." England turned away from him and seemed to be talking to himself. "He's been listening to that blasted Spaniard again. I'll have to fix that." He turned back to France, a wicked edge to his voice. "Oh well. I suppose you'll just have to take his place."

Before France could ask what he meant, England grabbed a fistful of his hair and roughly dragged him out. The Frenchman barely surpressed a whimper as he felt strands of his hair being ripped out by the roots. A sharp tug brought him back up to stare into those vicious eyes.

"Listen closely, pet," the Brit hissed. "My name is Jack Kirkland. You are to refer to me as Master. You are never to speak French in my presence. You are never to fight back. Understand?"

France scowled. Even if he was a bit of a coward, he wasn't going to just roll over for this "Jack" character. On a sudden impulse, he spat into the Brit's eyes. "Casse-toi."

Jack let go of his hair, wiping his face on his sleeve, and pressed a foot into the quickly-retreating Frenchman's back, pinning him to the floor. France scrambled to free himself, but the pressure on his back increased, driving the air from his lungs. He felt the Brit lean in close.

"I'll go easier on you if you agree."

France remained silently defiant. This was, of course, the wrong answer. The pressure on his back let up, but was replaced by the agonizing crack of a whip. Nails or spikes must have been embedded in the end, as the Frenchman felt the sharp edges tear through his clothing and the flesh beneath. Warm rivulets of blood rolled down his sides and soaked into his blue cloak, sticking the fabric to his skin and filling his head with the smell of iron.

"I won't ask again, pet."

Seeing as the entire situation was becoming more and more hopeless with each passing second, France sighed and hung his head.

"Yes master."

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**Only one translation this time; "casse-toi" means "fuck off" according to Google, but I saw in another fic that it meant "fuck you." I don't trust Google as much as I do other people. And chéri, of course, means darling.**


	4. Chapter 3: Liberté

**Again, I want to thank all of you for reading this as far as you have. It really makes me happy to see people embracing my little Goth!Talians like this. As a note, this chapter features an OC of my friend's that she created just for this story, and has graciously allowed me to use. Thanks again, cher~!**

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France could no longer tell where the whip ended and the blood began. The tiled floor around him had turned into a small crimson sea, pooling around his feet and fed from the cuts created in his shoulder-blades. His legs had collapsed ages ago, but the cuffs embedded in the wall into which his wrists had been roughly chained kept him from sinking to the floor.

Jack Kirkland's wicked veridian eyes appeared in his peripheral vision, gleaming with hostile lust and pride, brushing his choppy midnight-blue bangs out of the way. "You're very strong, my pet. Little Night would have passed out by now."

France could certainly understand why. Besides that cruel whip, Jack had used all sorts of wicked devices on the poor Frenchman's body. A knife, a switch, he swore he'd even seen the psychotic Englishman pluck a pair of sharp-nosed scissors from his table of instruments. Not that he knew what each felt like; all France knew at this point was that parts of his body that were never designed to withstand pain were screaming in agony, and that the sheer volume of drying blood on his limbs was enough to make him feel chilled.

A hesitant knocking at the door took those wicked eyes away from him. France glanced back and saw a boy that was immediately recognizable as Italy, even with his bright-burgundy hair. The little Italian bowed to Jack, speaking to him rapidly and in a high, frightened voice. Jack stiffened and followed him out, leaving France to stew in his own bodily fluids and ponder what he might have done to deserve this.

Another knock, this time to the high-set, small window to his left, brought the Frenchman back to reality. A second and third knock, and then a combat-booted foot broke through and shattered the glass. A girl soon followed, landing catlike on the floor. She glanced at the Frenchman, eyes a dull red color, and seemed surprised to see him staring back. Without a word, the girl crept over and picked the locks on his bindings, pulling him along and out the way she had come in before he could get out a word of thanks.

The mysterious girl didn't stop running until they had left Jack's castle-for, really, what else could that huge estate be called?-far behind. Though their surroundings were as familiar to the Frenchman as good food was to England, he felt a sense of... _home_ emanating from the low stone buildings. The girl pulled him into one of these buildings, outside of which a small sign said, in yellow lettering, "Liberté."

Inside, everything was dark. France heard a quiet shuffling, a pair of hushed voices conversing in worried tones. Dim lights flickered on overhead, revealing honeysuckle-colored walls, soft-beige carpeting, and two men. The one on the left observed him impassively from behind black, wire-rimmed glasses and red-and-black bangs. France assumed him to be this world's Spain. The other, with silver, black-tipped hair and ruby-red eyes, paced back and forth, sending a quick glare at the other every now and then. He must have been Prussia.

The girl, France's savior, approached the Spaniard and greeted him with a nod. She then turned to France, ebony hair swishing with the movement. "Qui êtes-vous?"

The Frenchman blinked, the amount of blood he'd lost messing with his mind. "Er... Francis. Francis Bonnefoy."

She nodded to herself. "That explains why you weren't unconscious." She turned to the Spaniard. "Care to explain why he's here instead, Iommi?"

The man in question pushed is glasses up the bridge of his nose and regarded France with somber, lime-green eyes. "Even I don't have the answer to that, amiga."

The girl nodded again and turned once more to the Frenchman. "Well as long as you're here, we'll protect you, Francis." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Elle BeRellif, and this is Iommi Carriedo," she gestured to the Spainiard," and Gil Beilschmidt," this time to the still-pacing albino.

Gil looked more upset than ever. "How could you lose him, Io?! Seriously! You told me he vas safe vith you!"

Iommi's expression remained unchanged. "Don't blame me for this, Gil. I've been telling you for years that there's a rat amongst us."

Elle stepped between the two, giving each of them a withering look. "Stop it, now. You two will just have to get along and take care of Francis until we can find Night."

_Again with this Night fellow_, France thought. "Excusez-moi, but who is zhis Night person I keep 'earing about? And on zhat note, where are we?"

It was Gil who answered him. "Night is our personification of France. Und I'm pretty sure you can figure the second one out by now."

He couldn't. Whether is was from the lack of blood or the complete turnaround he'd experienced when he was dragged out in the dead of night, France had no idea where they were. Iommi seemed to notice this, and his expression changed to something close to pity. "Let me show you something, amigo."

Without waiting for a reply, the Spaniard walked out onto a small veranda overlooking a rather pathetic dead yard and, beyond that, a dark, low skyline. One shape stood out from the black shapes of the buildings below, a shape that France had only seen in such a state back before it had been finished. His heart clenched painfully, the sudden shock dulling his injuries for a moment.

Iommi gave him a sad, sympathetic smile. "Welcome to Paris, capital of New Britain."

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**Translations:**

**liberté: freedom or liberty**

**Qui êtes-vous?: Who are you?**

**excusez-moi: excuse/pardon me**

**amigo: friend**

**And just to recap; YES, the little redheaded Italian IS Italy, Iommi IS Spain, and Gil IS Prussia.**


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